Ghost Fleet

by P. W. Singer, August Cole

  Roscoe pulled out of the turn; the tunnel widened, and the heavy weight on his body lifted. His plane’s radar-warning receiver abruptly went silent. He craned his neck to see where the J-31 was. He couldn’t find it at first, and then he saw the matte-gray-and-blue Chinese fighter falling end over end toward the ocean below, trailing a thick plume of smoke and flame. Flying away was a Shrike. The wedge-shaped drone pulled an insanely tight turn that would have knocked out any human pilot, firing a missile at a MiG-35 in the midst of it. Even before that MiG exploded, the Shrike was already off hunting its next target, its autonomous programming relentless in its computerized efficiency.

  “Little bastard didn’t even stop to see if I was okay,” said Roscoe, silently thanking the drone’s designers.

  He checked his radar display, which was momentarily free of jamming strobes. He felt sick when he saw how empty the sky was of aircraft. In less than a minute, at least a hundred lives had been lost.

  “Longboard, Longboard, this is Boneyard Leader. We’ve serviced most of your visitors, but I show eight leakers made it through our picket line. MiG-35s,” he said, trying to steady his voice as his plane bucked. “We’re going to run them down, but it looks like some bogeys are going to make it to you first, over.”

  The four F-15s remaining in Eagle Flight took off in pursuit at almost nine hundred miles an hour, their maximum at low altitude. The low-fuel warning flashed in Roscoe’s cockpit. Going to afterburner so much would cost him the chance to get home, he thought, but that was beside the point at this stage of the game.

  He visually picked up the Russian MiGs by the telltale signs of their missile launches. The remains of Eagle Flight had arrived too late.

  “Jesus, that’s a lot of hurt,” said Roscoe to the other three pilots. “I count at least two dozen missiles.”

  “At least thirty,” said Squiggle, the pilot in the F-15C flying off Roscoe’s right wing.

  “Fire everything you have left. Use ’em or lose ’em!” Roscoe ordered.

  He fired off his remaining AIM-9X, visually following it as it locked on one of the MiGs trailing the formation. The MiG was breaking upward, climbing for more altitude after launching its anti-ship missiles, when the Sidewinder exploded just aft of the jet.

  “Eagle Flight, I’m Winchester,” Roscoe said, letting whoever was left know he was down to guns only.

  He pushed his jet past the MiG flat-spinning into the waves below, maxing the power to try to run down the cruise missiles starting to accelerate into the distance. Above him, the Russian and American jets grappled in a final violent confrontation that took six Russian missiles and two more MiGs out of the sky but also resulted in the destruction of three of the four American F-15s.

  He’d hoped to catch one of the missiles with a lucky shot from his guns, but his luck had run out; the F-15’s damaged vertical stabilizer broke away like a shingle in a hurricane. “So there’s me,” said Roscoe to himself as he struggled with the bucking plane.

  He eyed the ocean below, looking for the driest spot to ditch in. The left engine began to sputter. His war would end now. Roscoe took his left hand off the stick and reached for the yellow metal bar by his knee on which his crew chief had jokingly written Do not touch! in felt-tip marker. The plane’s violent pitching made getting a grip on the ejection handle far harder than he’d expected.

  USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center

  “Twenty-six missiles incoming, sir,” said Richter with the kind of detachment that often accompanies extreme fear. “ATHENA shows Port Royal counterfiring.”

  While not of the same design, the Port Royal was a sister ship of sorts to the Z. She had been the youngest of the navy’s Ticonderoga-class cruisers, and one of the first with the ability to shoot down ballistic missiles as part of the Navy’s Linebacker program. But in 2009, when it ran into a coral reef about a half a mile from the Honolulu airport, the ship earned a new, cruel nickname. The Port Coral, as it became known, didn’t sink, but the extensive damage to the ship’s hull, propellers, and sonar dome put the U.S. Navy’s then youngest cruiser on the target list for early retirement to the Ghost Fleet.

  The Port Royal fired a wave of SM-3 air-defense missiles that sped upward from the vertical launchers embedded in its deck. The missiles arced up and then pitched down toward the low-flying cruise missiles. A wave of Seasparrow defensive missiles followed.

  The collisions were almost instantaneous, showering the ocean surface with flame, fuel, and metal shards.

  “I count that as fourteen hit, sir. We have twelve still incoming,” said the sailor.

  “Full countermeasures and launch the Utah,” said Simmons.

  A large metal canister that had been affixed to the Zumwalt’s stern separated from the ship with a loud bang. It popped thirty feet into the air and then dropped into the water with an anticlimactic splash, bobbing up and down.

  Vern, who had been out on the deck checking a power-cable connection during a lull in the rail-gun fire, stopped to watch as the massive gray form the Z was leaving behind began inflating.

  Mike ran up to her yelling, “We need to get back inside!”

  Vern gave him a puzzled look and then returned her attention to the growing form, the words USS Utah unfurling on its side in white paint as it inflated. “What is it?”

  “Now, Vern, move!” Mike half carried her roughly back to the shelter of the main superstructure. He steered her below decks and talked at the same time, occasionally pausing to catch his breath. “USS Utah was an old World War One battleship. By the time of the first Pearl Harbor attack, it had been turned into a floating naval target ship for our own gunners to practice on. But when the Japanese attacked in ’41, their pilots saw what looked from above like a real battleship. The old Utah was sunk, but not before she soaked up a ton of bombs that the enemy could have used on other, better targets. Our Utah is supposed to do the same.”

  As they descended deeper into the ship, the matte-gray bag behind the Z continued to expand until it formed the silhouette of a small warship, with metallic reflective squares on it enhancing its signature. With a jerk, the towline finally paid out a quarter mile behind the ship, and the Utah now followed the Zumwalt, matching its speed.

  “Sir, ATHENA says the incoming missiles are selecting targets. Twenty seconds out,” said the sailor in the mission center.

  “ATHENA, full autonomous mode! Authorization Simmons, four, seven, Romeo, tango, delta,” said Simmons quickly.

  The ship’s laser-point defense fired first. There was no noise or visible light and only faint, almost delicate movements as the solid-state, high-energy laser fired. It was a moment of faith for the crew, as the weapon lacked the certainty of gunpowder. The ship’s laser-gun camera showed a small flame spark on the target as the hundred-kilowatt beam came into contact with it. The missile caught fire and sank into the water. Then ATHENA automatically directed it to track and fire on a second missile.

  At the same time, two Metal Storm computerized machine-gun turrets on the Zumwalt’s port and starboard sides came out of sleep mode. The weapons started to move back and forth, tracking the incoming cruise missiles with what looked like a predator’s patience. Then they locked targets and fired. The brief electronic zipping sound the guns made when they fired was as anticlimactic as it was effective; thousands of bullets shot out all at the same instant.

  The Russian Zvezda KH-31 missiles were programmed to feint and dodge as they flew just above the ocean surface in order to complicate a defense’s firing solution. That tactic was of no use against the Metal Storm, as the missiles flew right into what was almost literally a wall of bullets.

  “Seven missiles left,” said the tactical action officer.

  “Activate Utah’s radar beacon,” said Simmons.

  The remaining seven missiles’ ramjets kicked in, accelerating them to nearly three
times the speed of sound as they closed on the task force, flying just fifty feet above the rippling sea surface.

  As another missile was plucked away by a laser fire, the missiles broke formation like a startled flight of birds. Their targeting program picked out the largest ships in the task force. Two missiles vectored off toward the Zumwalt; two turned for the USS New York, a twenty-five-thousand-ton amphibious transport dock ship; two homed in on the USS America.

  Aboard the Zumwalt, the Metal Storm turrets zip-fired again, and one of the incoming missiles turning toward the America disappeared with a spray of shrapnel.

  Simmons held his headset mike close to his mouth with one hand and braced himself against the railing of the ship mission center’s second story with the other, looking at the sailors below him. “All hands, all hands. Incoming missiles, prepare for impact.”

  As the two missiles sped toward Zumwalt, one appeared to twitch. It broke off and slammed into the Utah, the missile’s electronic brain registering what a human brain would have felt as satisfaction when it found its supposed target. The decoy ship exploded with a massive eruption of air and water.

  The second cruise missile stayed true to its targeting-software designer’s intent. It made a final course correction and then enveloped the Zumwalt in a bloom of orange flame. The explosion rocked the ship, sending a shock wave through the mission center and tossing the captain over the center’s railing.

  When he came to, Simmons found himself on the lower level of the ship mission center. He pulled himself up by the arm of the radar operator’s chair. Richter reached over and gave him a hand and then turned back to her screens. His back ached, but otherwise he seemed fine. Less so the room. Two of the wall screens had fallen off their mounts, one hitting the tactical action officer, who looked to have a broken collarbone. Acrid smoke made Simmons’s eyes water.

  “Somebody get the air back on,” he shouted. He looked for Cortez. He had been beside him a second ago, but now he was gone.

  “XO! Damage report!” said Simmons.

  The air started to clear in the room as the fans switched on, but the stink of fire and plastic remained. If they made it through, they were going to smell like this for weeks, Simmons mused.

  “EV system back online, sir,” called Cortez. He tracked the ship’s self-diagnostics on his glasses. “Working on the damage report.”

  The voice came from the room’s upper deck. Simmons raced back up the steps and saw Cortez kneeling, helping a sailor into his chair.

  Cortez stood, straightened his glasses, and gave Simmons the battle-damage update as far as he knew it. The missile warhead had detonated just fore of the superstructure. The good news was all the fires were contained to the impact site, and ATHENA, propulsion, and radar were online.

  The rest was bad news. The only operative external camera showed smoke and flame shrouding the ship’s forward superstructure, blackening the whole surface. The laser turret on that side had evidently popped out of its mount before it settled back into place. The shock of the explosion had knocked loose power cables across the ship.

  “Damage-control team is already on the way,” he said. “Fire-bots and ship’s suppression system are operative.” Two more of the monitors flickered back on as more of the ship’s external cameras rebooted. The faces of both officers fell at the images.

  The New York listed over on its port side, almost at a forty-five-degree angle to the water’s surface. The image zoomed in on the two smoldering holes in the sides of its hull, which were sucking more and more water into the bowels of the ship, dragging it down. Sailors leaped from the superstructure into the flaming waters around it, only to disappear as the ship rolled over on top of them.

  Better off was the America, but not by much. The missile had apparently gone into the opening of its elevator lift. A delicate-looking mushroom cloud hung above the hole ripped in its flight deck. Secondary explosions from aviation fuel stored below punched jets of flame out into the air. Yet for all the smoke and fire, the ship looked steady in the water.

  “How many?” said Simmons.

  “New York had already disembarked most of their Marines, so ATHENA is reporting five-hundred-plus KIA or missing. America, another eight hundred and twenty-five. Those numbers will change as data updates,” Cortez replied softly.

  “I meant our ship,” said Simmons.

  “System shows seven dead, twenty-two wounded,” said Cortez. “Four missing.”

  “My dad?” asked Simmons, lowering his voice. He squinted, suppressing something he did not want to feel now, or ever.

  “No, sir. He’s registering as active with the damage-control team below decks,” said Cortez, placing his glasses on top of his head, transfixed by the sight of the hull of the now-capsized New York slipping under the waves.

  Simmons didn’t allow himself to feel any relief at the news. He gripped the railing until the tendons in his hands surrendered to the pain. The discomfort cleared his head and focused his attention.

  “Helmsman, move us over parallel to the America,” said Simmons. “They’re going to need our help fighting those fires.”

  USS Zumwalt, Below Decks

  Mike followed the caterpillar-like fire-bot down the smoky passageway, knowing it would lead him to where he was needed most.

  “Hit it over there,” he heard Davidson say, his voice muffled through a smoke hood. Already the blaze was nearly under control. Brooks wielded an extinguisher, spraying foam and coolant on the seared metal and melted composite. Davidson gave the Mohawked kid a thumbs-up, the kind of silent compliment that meant the most to the young man. The fire-bot scooted ahead and detonated its fire-retardant-chemical payload near the Russian missile’s impact point.

  As the smoke cleared, daylight from the irregular oval hole in the deck above them punched through with a spotlight’s intensity. Mike had Brooks spray the walls again, and he climbed up carefully to put his head through so he could see the deck-side damage. The missile appeared to have struck as the ship rolled, which deflected its blast skyward, not into the hull. The heat, though, had seared the entire superstructure, melting the composite material into something that looked more like cooled lava than the creased lines of the radar-deflecting design. He took in the wider view beyond, the Z edging closer to the burning USS America, two of its fire hoses spraying toward it. Mike looked down and spotted a figure splayed out on a litter being rushed somewhere by another sailor and a corpsman. It was Parker; the big sailor was crying as he tried to move a blackened arm. Mike rested his head on his forearm briefly, suddenly fatigued, and then began to climb down.

  “Superstructure’s all melted to shit,” said Mike, pulling off his smoke hood. Davidson did the same, coughing slightly. Brooks left his hood on.

  “Take off your hood, Brooks, surgeon general’s orders. It’s not the smoking that’s going to kill you today,” said Mike, inhaling deeply.

  Brooks reluctantly pulled the hood off and blinked bloodshot eyes.

  Mike turned to Davidson. “We need to seal and reinforce that material up there; if we get into any kind of seas, it’s going to get wet down here fast.”

  “When’s that going to happen?” said Davidson. “Chinese missiles don’t care about whatever sea state we’re in.”

  “No,” said Mike. “But I do. Take care of the ship, and it’ll take care of you. You should know that by now.”

  “We can slap some epoxy and Kevlar ply up there, then brace it. Sound good?” asked Davidson, digging in his right ear, trying to clear it.

  “It’ll do,” said Mike. “Your ears okay?”

  Davidson nodded and said, “Everything’s tinny-sounding. But don’t worry, Chief, I can still hear you if you need to chew my ass out.”

  The radio slung over Mike’s right shoulder started to squawk. “Chief? This is the captain,” his son said, as if
he needed to identify himself to his own father. “What’s your status? Over.”

  “I’m okay, but we’re counting multiple wounded, mainly burns and broken bones and burst eardrums. We’ve got a hole about twelve foot wide and some fire and heat damage. You can kiss whatever stealth signature we had goodbye. Fortunately, the missile didn’t dig too deep. No structural damage that I can see. Main laser turret is going to need some major repair hours to get back into alignment, but we look to still be in business with the rail gun. I’ve got a damage-control party working on the hole. It’s above the water line, but I want it sealed up.”

  “Thank you, Chief. I knew I could count on you,” his son said. Mike could hear the relief in his voice, and he wasn’t sure whether it was for him or for the role he was filling. Today, either would do.

  USS Zumwalt Ship Mission Center

  Captain Simmons felt a tap on his shoulder: Cortez letting him know they had finally gotten the link to the task force command network back up.

  The video image filled the display screen, and Jamie looked at a grim-faced officer, Commander Alexander Anderson. Years ago, when he and Jamie were both just out of ROTC, they had served together onboard the USS Chafee. Anderson now had command of the Port Royal, which had pulled to the other side of the America and was adding the water from its fire hoses to help beat down the flames.

  “Jamie, it’s good to see you in one piece,” said Anderson. The officer had a slim face and narrow shoulders, and his uniform always looked slightly oversize. It was as if any extra calories his body had went to fueling his legendary brain.

  “Same here,” said Simmons. “Ship’s holding together. Crew too. We’re still in the fight. Any word from Admiral Murray?”

  “She’s gone, sir,” said Anderson, shifting back to a formal tone now that he saw his old friend was unhurt. “Confirmed by the America’s quartermaster, a petty officer who seems to be all that’s left in command there. Reports all power out. She had to yell over to us with a bullhorn.” He paused. “Captain Simmons, you know what this means. If that petty officer is right, and we have to assume she is, at this point . . . with Admiral Murray dead, and Captain Brookings on the America . . .”